


The Cities Above - Harlequin's Tale

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-09-12 00:57:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16863211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: Ficlets about Harlequin Moonsinger, a tiefling rogue who inhabits the world of The Cities Above, a D&D game that runs on a Monday every two weeks.





	1. Backstory

No-one really knows where Harlequin came from or what happened to his family; he simply appeared one day, aged perhaps 9 or 10 - just one more street rat with a charming grin and hungry eyes. He grew up on the streets with his elven friend, Eleni; whatever the reason why he was without parents or family, Eleni knew him as a carefree, charming and friendly youth whose silver tongue talked him out of trouble almost as much as it got him into it. By his late teens, a member of the Shadow Foxes, he was an accomplished and proficient thief who was rarely caught - and was usually pretty proficient at sweet-talking his way to freedom on those few occasions, though Eleni knows on one occasion he fell afoul of a noble who was unswayed by Harlequin’s charms and beat him to within an inch of his life - unsurprisingly, Harlequin cannot abide bullies to this day. He refuses to be a victim, nor will he stand by and let others been victimised.

Harlequin disappeared for two years not long after his beating, and no-one - not even Eleni - knows what happened to him. What is certain is that he had a weird and disturbing encounter with Something during that time that he never speaks of; those that knew him before his disappearance however have noted that Harlequin was somewhat changed when he reappeared. His wisecracking had been toned down a lot by it; he appeared more thoughtful and quiet, though courteous and charming as ever - and he takes far more care now in his thievery. 

He has a reputation in quite a number of the city’s taverns and brothels as being fond of indulging his vices however; when a certain fey mood comes upon him he can sometimes disappear for days, to be found eventually in some tavern or other, the worse for drink - or else some brothel where he is just as likely to have slept with pretty much anyone who asked as with every whore there. He enjoys dressing somewhat flamboyantly and that extends to his mannerisms on occasion, though he remains calm and rarely allows his emotions to get the better of him. 

 

(Linked to his disappearance, Harlequin has the following in his possession: Small hand-embroidered handkerchief with design of roses and lavender; there are three small spots of blood near one corner that is embroidered in red with the initials "JL". He has a troubling half-memory of a voice telling him it belonged to his sister, though he has no memory of her.)


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter with a dragonborn scammer nearly has disastrous consequences; afterwards, Harlequin finds he is not as sanguine about the encounter as he let on to his companions.

Harlequin glanced around the small room, then took the bed furthest from the door - tucked into the corner near the window. Dropping his bag onto the bed, he glanced out the window to look down on a low sloping roof - the kitchen, he surmised, from the smells of savory stew and freshly baked bread that reached his nose. He glanced around, noting that the kitchen backed onto a small yard, with only one exit out to the street. He let his eyes rove around the neighbouring buildings, noting overhanging eaves, window sills, gutters and drainpipes that could afford him a swift escape from the room and up onto the nearby roofs should he need one. He closed and fastened the shutters, then turned and looked around the room.

It wasn’t as nice as the single room he’d occupied at the previous inn, but at least this one had the advantage of being cheap and conveniently close to the fighting pit, and the beds did look reasonably clean. He’d be sharing this room with Sven; the others had the room next door. Beside the bed which Harlequin had claimed, there was one other bed across the room which he had left for Sven. A couple of chairs by a worn wooden table, and a wash stand with a white enamel bowl and a jug of water were the only other furniture.

Harlequin sat on the bed and exhaled slowly, finally allowing himself to relax a little - and to dwell on the events of the previous night.

They’d nearly lost Eleni. He couldn’t forget that horrible, heartstopping moment when he’d dashed to the door of the house, and over Sven’s shoulder seen the sprawled form of Eleni looking like nothing so much as a broken and bloodied abandoned rag doll. He’d thought her dead for a moment and been unable to breathe, until he saw her hand twitch.

Harlequin had known rage so rarely in his life, but he’d felt it then. He’d been aware of Tim hastily throwing a healing spell into Eleni; aware of Philia growling - actually growling! - as she gave into her own rage, channelling it for another attack upon the dragonborn who was glaring at them all. But Harlequin only had eyes for the dragonborn - the one who had struck down Eleni. His friend. The only family he’d ever known.

He’d dodged the dragonborn’s lightning attack, for the most part, and laughed - actually _laughed_ as he felt it burn him; let the pain roll through him, shrugging it off as he let his own power well up inside. He’d pointed a finger.

“ _My turn. Burn!_ ” he’d snarled, the Infernal rolling off his tongue like ashes and fury as the power surged through him and struck the dragonborn.

The rest of the fight wasn’t much more than a blur to him. Philia and Eleni had dispatched the dragonborn with assistance from Sven, Eleni striking the final deathblow. He vaguely remembered standing over Tim, brandishing his swords, laughing as he dared the two henchlings with crossbows to fire. An unreal remembrance of slicing a bolt out of the air, barely feeling the fragment of wood that splintered off and lodged in his arm. Tossing a sword to Philia and drawing a dagger and throwing it all in one smooth motion; the slow tumble of the woman from the roof, his blade sunk into her skull.

Perhaps it was sleeping afterwards that gave it all an air of unreality. But as he sat there, his mind kept circling back to the sight of Eleni on the floor and the brief, sickening feeling that she was dead.

She’d been like a sister to him for so long, and they had come so close to losing her.

He drew a shuddering breath, then started as the door suddenly opened to admit Sven, who threw his bag down on the other bed then glanced over at the blue-skinned tiefling.

“Oh, hey, Harlequin,” he grinned then paused. “Hey, you OK?”

Harlequin got to his feet and flashed Sven an answering grin. “I’m fine,” he lied, as he headed towards the door. He needed a drink.

He couldn’t shake the image of Eleni lying dead.


	3. Bad Life Choices?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following another encounter that could have gone much worse (and which leads to the group dubbing themselves the Firestarters), Harlequin reflects on things and reacts with a less than healthy response.

Up ahead, Harlequin spotted Tim’s bright pink hair appear briefly as the diminutive woman jumped up and glanced around the crowd, trying to spot him. He sighed. They were supposed to be keeping a low profile (not easy for a 6’ 2” blue-skinned tiefling, though he was having moderate success, he supposed, if Tim couldn’t see him) but her bright hair was very noticeable. He rolled his eyes and made his way through the throng towards her. 

“Hey - up here,” he said quietly as he bent down to pat her on the shoulder; she was almost half his height. He winced as the movement pulled painfully at the wound. Straightening slowly, he pressed his hand over it, stifling a groan. Tim had thrown him a heal at the end of that fight, but his back still ached and throbbed where the crossbow bolt had struck, right over his kidney. He’d be pissing blood tonight; of that, he was pretty certain.

It had felt like white-hot fire when the bolt hit him; his vision whited out for a second and he staggered - and then the anger surged through him with terrifying intensity. The power rose within him once more; fury burning in his veins as he turned, looked over his shoulder to glare back at the crossbowman frantically reloading as he stood in the window of the tavern across the street. 

Harlequin let rip with a stream of invective of the foulest curses he knew, instinctively dropping into Infernal as he pointed at the man - and the flame and fire of his swearing took form, unfurled in vitriolic inferno, incinerating the man where he stood and igniting the room around him as the fire took hold upon the wood.

It was anger that carried him through the rest of that fight. Dropping his sword, he wrenched out the bolt and felt hot wetness spreading as his blood soaked into his shirt and coat; a dagger flew from his hand to embed itself in the throat of another crossbowman on the roof of another building nearby. Pressing a hand to the wound, he gritted his teeth as he bent to retrieve his sword and then felt blessed relief as a gentle, soothing warmth blossomed and spread across his back, numbing the pain as the wound drew together. The feel of Tim’s healing magic was familiar and welcome; he sighed then glanced around for her and managed a relieved grin.

It ached; as he kept by Tim’s side, the swirl of the skirts of his frock coat (hopefully) shielding her from view, he could still feel it - a dull throbbing that pulsed warningly with each jarring footstep as he let Tim’s chatter wash over him, a soothing distraction that made it a little easier to ignore the nagging of his back. No doubt he’d have a spectacular bruise left. And - oh, shards and blast it, he’d have to darn the hole in his coat and try to get the blood out of his second-best linen shirt! He’d already had to darn it after their last little fracas. He sighed inwardly, and cheered himself up with the thought of indulging in some of the fun contents of Tim’s little bag of delights. 

The rest of their journey back to the inn was later a blur. He had vague recollections of Tim dragging him into her room with a giggle, and then the rest of the evening was a delightful dreamy haze until he came to himself a while after dawn and was unsurprised to find himself naked in Tim’s bed with her curled up against him, her head resting upon his chest, his arm curled around her. He couldn’t remember much of the evening, but that was nothing new, really. At least his back no longer pained him.

He wondered how pissed Eleni would be with him.


	4. Tied Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to a typical encounter between Harlequin and his best friend Eleni, in which Harlequin is once again in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He woke slowly.

His first awareness was that his head ached abominably, and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. The second was that he was face down on a bed and his wrists were bound with rope, arms outstretched, to what felt like the bedstead. And the third was that there was a deep ache inside; a burning kind of ache that throbbed uncomfortably.

He could feel a wet patch beneath his groin and belly. Ah. It had been _that_ kind of night. Presumably he'd imbibed a lot of alcohol; he hoped it was something decent, to earn such a hangover. He lifted his head and looked around, bleary-eyed.

He recognised the room straight away; it was one of the more up-market bordellos somewhere near the bridge. It had probably been a good night then. Brief fragments of memory were beginning to assert themselves, and he smiled sleepily. Oh yes... the handsome Alessandro and his many delights; he remembered now. 

He flexed his wrists in the rope and wondered how long it would be until Alessandro returned to release him. In fact, it was a little concerning that he'd woken up still bound; Alessandro was usually more conscientious than that. Harlequin had certainly paid him enough to be, after all.

Damn. This probably meant trouble. He flexed his wrists a little more energetically then swore; the knots were a little too well tied. And he couldn't get purchase enough with his claws to try shredding the rope. He lashed his tail in agitation.

“Oh, Harlequin. I knew I'd find you here.” Eleni's voice held a note of amused exasperation. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder and spotted the elven woman leaning against the door.

“Eleni, dear heart! You are a sight for sore eyes,” he grinned. “Do be a dear and untie me?”

“I do _not_ want to know what you've been up to,” she sighed as she crossed the room and pulled out a dagger to start cutting through the rope.

“And if you're here and Alessandro is not, I presume I don't want to know what has happened to him,” replied Harlequin grimly as she moved around the bed to free his other wrist. “Let me guess - this is one of those occasions when I need to leave in a hurry and not ask any questions?”

“Got it in one,” smiled Eleni as he got to his knees and sat up, rubbing his wrists. She picked up his clothes and threw them to him before turning on her heel to give him a little privacy as he dressed.

He sighed and tugged his boots on before checking he had everything, then turned back to her. “Alright, how far away do I need to be?”

“There's a tavern about half a mile from here,” she replied. “The Hanged Fox. I suggest you walk off your hangover then have a little hair of the dog. Just try not to be too tipsy by the time I join you in ohhh... an hour tops.”

He wrinkled his nose at the tavern's name. “Oh, delightful,” he sniffed. “Very well. I'll have your usual waiting for you.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she smiled.

He sighed, then gave her a hug. “I appreciate the warning, Eleni,” he murmured.

“Hey, what are friends for?” she replied as she gave him a squeeze then stepped back.

“Just be careful,” he warned her, his face now serious. 

“As always,” she nodded.

Harlequin gave her a courteous bow then blew her a kiss before climbing out the window. Shimmying down the nearby drain pipe, he landed lightly on the roof of the stable, strolled along to the edge and was swiftly on the ground and slipping into the early morning throng.

He was halfway along the block when he heard the explosion behind him. Ah, it was one of _those_ jobs. He smiled and carried on towards the Hanged Fox, whistling jauntily.

It was going to be a beautiful day.


	5. The Calm before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having slain the Wasp's most senior lieutenants, the Bonder Brothers, Harlequin and his companions make quiet preparation for the final fight against the Wasp, led by Mirage - their employer.

It was quiet, yet unpeaceful. There was a restless, watchful, anticipatory air all through Mirage’s headquarters; Mirage’s people preparing their weapons, polishing blades, readying themselves for what would come in only a few hours.

Harlequin, Eleni, Philia, Tim and Sven had made their own preparations. The poison had been brewed; he and Eleni had carefully cleaned and reanointed all their blades. As he worked in silence, Harlequin’s thoughts were on the fight to come - but also on the fight just past. And now, even though he and the others had played cards as a distraction - at Philia's suggestion - his thoughts had returned to that once more.

Despite his bravado in front of Alexia and then Mirage, he was painfully aware that they’d been lucky. Very, very lucky. He’d run through strategies and tactics in his head even as they’d approached the doors of the pit; but he knew well enough that the Bonder brothers were seasoned fighters - and after all, there were good reasons why they were the Wasp’s highest-ranked lieutenants. All Harlequin’s planning could go clean out the window if either dragonborn tagged him with a direct hit; for all his height, dexterity and grace, he had a willowy frame and he was well aware of his physical limitations.

Being beaten to within an inch of his life two years ago had done that. He’d never been one for planning or strategy before then, but nearly dying had changed many things. That... and what came after.

He shuddered, swallowing hard, and deliberately wrenched his thoughts away from... _that_. He drew a deep breath and glanced around.

No-one appeared to have noticed anything amiss; Tim was curled up dozing, Philia was bent over her recently-acquired mace, cleaning the flanges that had wrought so much devastation on Colm Bonder. Eleni sat quietly to one side in quiet meditation. Sven was taking the chance to grab a quick nap.

Quietly, Harlequin got to his feet and silently padded off to find a quiet corner away from everyone else. After a little casting around, he eventually settled on quietly climbing up into the rafters. Setting his back against one of the support pillars, he pondered for a moment then pulled out his lute, letting his fingers drift lightly over the strings, coaxing delicate notes as he closed his eyes, replaying the fight over in his mind - every step, every misstep, every movement as they had fought - the feel of the daggers as they flew from his hands, the sweep of his swords as he’d joined Philia at the end to finish Colm Bonder off, his mage brother already dead by Eleni’s hand.

There were so many unknowns to this forthcoming fight, and he could feel that the infernal fires in his blood had not yet replenished themselves from the last fight. He couldn’t count on being able to pull that trick off again; it would be all dagger-work and attacking from the shadows.

It was what he did best, really. That and the bravado and swagger. Ye gods, if they only knew how much it was all an act....

Well. All of them except Eleni, of course. She’d seen him at his weakest, but had never held it against him. She knew. She understood. She could hear through his laughter when he would declaim himself as a coward and she knew he was telling the truth and the laugh was the lie.

Well. Maybe if he tried harder, lied better, he might even be able to fool himself one day.

His fingers stilled on the strings as he became aware that the atmosphere had changed. There was a tense anticipation in the air; a feeling of imminent violence. It was nearly time.

He dropped down to the ground, slinging the lute back on his back as he made his way to rejoin the others. Philia glanced up as she gave her mace a last, experimental swing.

“Where did you go?” she asked with a small frown.

“Oh, nowhere in particular,” he replied with a careless shrug. “Taking a nap.” He grinned disarmingly, aware of Eleni’s eyes on him.

“Oh, is it time then?” asked Tim as she sat up with a yawn.

“I fear so,” Harlequin smiled as he crouched down and held out a hand to help her to her feet.

Yes... it was time.

_Let me not be the coward this time. Let me be strong enough._

_Let me not let them down._


	6. Revelation

It had been Eleni’s voice that brought him back.

He had blinked, aware she’d asked if he was alright; he still felt the roiling heat inside, but lessened from a roaring inferno that had whited out his vision for some minutes - how long, he had no idea - to mere anger; a muted fury. Voiceless, directionless, but still a sense of waiting, of wanting _out_.

He’d grinned, all teeth and fangs and fury. “Never better, darling,” he’d declared before switching his focus to the dragonborn upon the floor: Mirage.

No. They knew now. _The Butcher._

The whole fight felt unreal to him now, as he slowly wiped the Butcher’s blood from his sword. He didn’t look down at the dead dragonborn at his feet, still gazing sightlessly up at him in death, the terrible wound between those glazed eyes sluggishly still seeping blood where Harlequin had wrenched free his blade after striking the death blow. 

He tamped down his emotions - the fear he’d felt for Eleni earlier as she’d gone toe-to-toe with the Butcher, the heartstopping moments as he’d cradled a seemingly-lifeless Tim and begged her not to die whilst trying to administer what little he knew of first aid and desperately prayed to whatever gods were listening that it would be enough to stabilise her. They would serve no purpose right now except to render him useless, and they still had to get out of this place.

The Wasp was dead, body charred and blackened as it hung, gently swaying from the chains. So was the Butcher, sprawled in a pool of his own blood. In one night, two major criminal organisations had been rendered leaderless, and they could only guess at what chaos this would wreak upon the city. He wondered how many of “Mirage’s” people had known they were in fact working for the Butcher?

He glanced over at the dead Goliath; had _he_ known? Harlequin supposed that didn’t really matter now. He glanced around the room, and his eye fell on the array of flensing and torture implements the Butcher had laid out upon a table to one side, and couldn’t repress a shiver.

He wrenched his attention back to the others. Eleni was still giving him a thoughtful look; he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“So,” he said in an almost cheery voice. “What now?”

***

They’d returned to their inn a couple of hours ago. Harlequin had excused himself from the others, claiming exhaustion, and retreated to the room he’d paid for from his own coin with the bottle of cognac he'd claimed for himself from the Gemcutter's stash. He assumed Garvenom, the red-skinned tiefling cleric who had thrown in his lot with them, would be sharing the rest of their boozy haul with Sven and Philia in Sven's room, but right now Harlequin needed to be alone. He was pretty certain his sleep would be restless when it finally came; shards and stars, he knew only too well what dreams Sven would be trying to drown right now, but Harlequin couldn't stay and look upon the scars and half-healed wounds the thief had suffered at the Gemcutter's hands. They reminded him too much of his own.

Right now he was sprawled upon his back, fingers plucking absently at the strings of the lute as he gazed at the ceiling, ignoring the way his breath still rasped a little in his chest - a lingering after-effect of the poison gas he'd inhaled earlier - and tried not to think. Not about what they had just done; most of all not about what had happened to Sven. But that meant it was hard to wrench his mind away instead from dwelling on what had happened when that half-elf had tried to do... what? Cast some form of enchantment upon him, he supposed. And then -

He swore softly in Infernal. He’d been afraid of this happening. He was losing his grip on it; it was getting stronger. He’d never blanked out like that before. He had no idea how long he’d been lost to the white heat inside or what he may have done - and he was afraid to ask Eleni. 

_”Are you alright, dear? You’re not sounding yourself.”_

No. No, he was very far from alright.

And then there were the other odd things that had happened. The grenade that threw them to the ground, and how he'd turned to glare at the dying man, fury rising to take the place of the knife-edge of fear he'd been running on for the past 24 hours. "Look at you! Who dressed you this morning - a colourblind goblin? Oh, but of course it was - your mother dresses you _every_ morning, doesn't she?" Biting viciousness in his voice as a wave of acid heat rolled through him.

And the man had died. Like that.

The fight against the Gemcutter - clutching the blade of his dagger a little too tightly, feeling the edge nick his fingers. A little trickle of blood, and his mind suddenly cleared as he glared at the Gemcutter and let the malevolence roll through him, and feeling... something else. A surge of quicksilver through his veins. He felt that again, but differently, as he had leaned over Sven, helping him to sit up, worry foremost in his mind as he tried to stop the bleeding - and then a tingling warmth in his hands and the worst of Sven's wounds had started to close.

He sat up and drew his knees up as he laid the lute aside, coughing slightly with the brief exertion, and reached for the cognac. This was all too much. His mind would not settle. Staring at the bottle in his hands, he raised it and took a long pull.

He was unsurprised when the door to his room silently opened a while later and Eleni peered in at him. He smiled, a little shakily, and raised the bottle a little in silent toast before beckoning her in.


End file.
